You, with your
naïve 18 year old idealism, your bloated
sense of justice and self importance — to die,
to sleep. So what?
Because life and injustice roll on
with or without you. Most foul,
and pestilent, indeed
when your uncle and mom play the beast
with 2 backs and your dad
not yet 2 months dead. Cold meats
furnished out, and so forth.

But death, you think, there’s the rub,
or just take that bare bodkin
and end it. But, really,
how could you? For then,
oh then, what dreams may come
may not be pretty like sweet Ophelia
singing the willow song. Oh, how
does it go? Weep, willow,
weep for me.

And the final slaughter onstage.
The whole ugly mess
laid bare in the end.

 

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